There is no cloud without its silver lining. To Mr. Ducrot’s great joy, the chief Man of Wrath commands:
“New cadets will immediately take a bath.”
For the first time since reporting he enjoys a little relaxation, splashing around under the showers, where occur stolen confidences when the instructors are busy elsewhere. A refreshed feeling creeps over Mr. Ducrot and he double times back to his room to await the inspection of his shoes and feet. Pretty soon, in pops the officer in charge with tapes and foot sticks for taking the measure of shoes. Alas, no pointed toes or English lasts are allowed:—all cadets must wear a sensible military shoe. Regularly, are Mr. Ducrot’s feet inspected during his first few weeks to remedy ill-fitting shoes and prevent cases of soreness.
Years ago in the days of hazing, a vastly different sort of inspection of feet occurred. This was an unofficial inspection of the plebe’s feet by upper-classmen. In the middle of the night when the tired plebe was snoring away, dreaming of being late to a formation and pursued by raging demons, he was suddenly awakened by a hollow voice in his tent, commanding:
“Inspec-shun! Feet,” the “feet” said crisply and emphatically.
Without delay Mr. Ducrot sticks his bare feet out for the inspection of the midnight prowler. He then, by order, opens his toes into the intervals of which the gloating upper-classman poured melted candle grease, thereby ending the inspection.
At eight-thirty in the evening, Mr. Ducrot, wearily but joyfully, makes down his bed that has remained folded all day long. At last, he is to have a rest, blessed sleep is in sight.
At nine o’clock the orderly in front of the Guardhouse beats three taps on his drum and simultaneously the cry:
“Lights out!” echoes through the halls of the divisions. Immediately the barracks are plunged into darkness and silence. Only the tread of the cadet officer doing his half-hour patrol in the Area, disturbs the stillness of the night.
Mr. Ducrot sinks back upon his pillow, dead tired, almost too tired to sleep, and strives to bring a little order out of the chaos of his mind. The oft-repeated names Ducrot, Dumbjohn, Duflicket, Dumbguard float through his head, indescribably confused with mattresses, pillows, stern-looking cadet officers, vicious yearling corporals, rows of red-faced plebes, chins drawn way in, and the perspiration streaming down their faces. The events of the day are hopelessly jumbled in his mind. A feeling almost of failure creeps over him, and in the solitude of the night a yearning for his home seizes him. All through his breast spasmodic sharp pains play hide and seek. The great loneliness to which men are prey, fills him with sadness and melancholy until a pleasing drowsiness drifts along and smothers Mr. Ducrot into unconsciousness.